You are Mine, I am Yours
by Bellaria
Summary: To understand is not to hear, but to see and wonder. The return of the Princess of Wolves. Oneshot


This not is unlike my usual, but inspiration struck. No particular warnings. But review if you like.

Bella xx

* * *

Becoming herself again after so long of being No One, was like peeling back layers.

From shadow to shadow she stepped, clean and rereshed, still in the face of No One, still lithe and agile as a cat she stepped.

In port she was No One as she batered passage.

She changed her face as she reached the other side, the dock was easy to be lost in, to become just another face, a young boy, lost to the crowd and never thought of more by the crew through which she'd bought passage.

Whispers travelled to her ears as they had in Braavos, wandering in the free cities, hearing whispers and rumors, of horror tales. Tales of the Lannister queen and her shame at the hands of the Faith of the Seven, then of the Tyrell queen and the death of her husband, thrice widowed and locked in a tower.

" _Lannister bitch is mad, didn't you hear? Screaming about golden shrouds."_

 _"The Tyrell begot a child, said to be heir of the throne, who knows what a half inbred babe would be like_."

Of Stannis Baratheon and his Red witch, burning people as they went in a mad quest for power in the name of the Red God. Burning his own followers.

" _She is all evil, they burn the non-believers, ignoring the seven and the old gods. Burning weirwoods and heart trees to ash_."

From there it begot whispers of Jaime Lannister hiding in Casterly Rock, keeping quiet as he held his holding in the wake of his fathers death.

" _Kingslayer is said to have been done with death, hiding his face with the new truth_."

Whispers of wildfire of a dragon queen and her army, Daeneyrs Stormborn, a Targaryen. They spoke of her beauty and of her army, unsullied and Dorthraki, freed slaves and above all her dragons.

" _She is as beautiful as she is merciful, her beasts are real and frightening._ "

And then the tale that had called her back, woken her as if from a dream of a man in the North, rising from the fires which his mutinous brothers had set him upon. They spoke of how he died and then lived again, the hidden prince, the Targaryen raised as a wolf. The once though of bastard.

Jon Snow.

No One was soon shed, after batering a horse, a cloak and food, armed and ready she took to the road.

The face was stripped back and she traveled at night, aware that she had changed physically she did not know, nor did she care.

On the third night of travel she heard a howl, in the snow and the wild, she heard it long and loud and longing. It called within her bones and she raised her head, hair drifting on the breeze, she would answer it.

For several nights she dreamed as the wolf, in starlight and snow she bounded, leading her pack on the hunt, rallying the three hundred wolves behind her.

 _The air was crisp on her ears and ruffled fur thick snow like a well loved friend. She felt strong and powerful, the largest of her pack of smaller wolves. Those that tried to dominate her, who tried to be her alpha fell to her teeth and claw, beaten and cowed but accepting of her superiority. The scent of her prey reached her as she prowled, heavy and musky with the promise of fulfillment and soon she was off. Primed and ready her muscles and sinew and bone hers to command._

 _The beast was easy and her prize. She would eat first, her pack would take down their own or pick at hers once she left it._

 _Blood dripped from her muzzle and she howled in triumph._

 _A howl answered and her head raised in answer._

 _He was close._

 _Nymeria._

 _Her head rose. Hope with it._

 _She was back_.

 **X-X**

Daenerys did not know what to make of Jaeneyres, Jon Targaryen. The ex Lord Commander of the wall.

He was a handsome man to be sure. Tall and broad and strong. His black curls hung to his collar, his beard neatly trimmed, the scar of his face did nothing to detract from his looks, more like they added to them. His strong jaw was stern as was his brow, his fair skin and dark hair and black clothes saw him as a man of the north, dressed in furs and wool he cut an impressive figure amongst his Northern men, of crows and wildlings they said. He was a man of the north but his eyes held the violet of a Targaryen.

He spoke softly but with an air of command, a leader and she rarely saw him smile, if then it was a brief quirk of the lips.

Often she would see him, gazing into the distance as his giant white wolf of red eyes gazed with him.

Aegon watched his half brother in disbelief most of the time, he'd heard the rumors, the stories, but to have them real before him bought him questions and disbelief.

What the other man thought though was unclear.

The Starks were as much a mystery.

Sansa Stark was beautiful, young and lovely with hair a deep red that shimmered like fire as it hung to her waist. Her blue eyes though we're aged with grief and loss and horror in ways that Daeneyrs was unsure she wanted to know the stories too. The tall young woman was sighed after as she moved through the camp almost as much as she herself was. Her mystery, her pleasing high cheekboned face and musical voice made her lovely. But her face was wary, she shied from touch as her tall lady knight followed her, and a boy young and wild followed her.

Rickon Stark was wild. His red hair pulled back by a leather tie, his blue eyes wary and wolfish. He held promise of a man to grow, but he was said to have lived wild so long he was more wolf than boy. His lithe frame prowled and he watched his sister and brother like a wolf. Careful of his pack, wary of the hand that fed him. His Skagos men were just as savage, his black beast prowling in his wake.

The last of them was Brandon Stark, the cripple. He had an intelligence that was useful, a reasoning that was sound. The wisdom in his blue eyes was as unerving as the paled iris of his eye as he skin walked. Warg. The word stuck with her. He too was auburn haired and beautifully featured. The girl that stayed beside him was wild and fierce, her black curled hair and brown eyes plain but pleasing. She guarded him and the affection they had was clear.

They spoke amongst themselves, keeping council and they loooked to their elder cousin for guidance often.

Others with them told her of the Starks, the wardens of winterfell, the wolf pack that defended their own. Their parents dead, murdered, as was the eldest brother. His head cut off and replaced by his wolf, paraded to mock the title of wolf king.

The last sibling was whispered about, sadly, quietly. The youngest sister had disappeared after the beheaded of Eddard Stark. Like smoke she had vanished.

She was rumored to be as wild as Rickon and a friend to the small folk. She had been loved by the people as a true daughter of the north. Wolf touched and wild and dark, the image of her aunt reborn.

There had been Jon's swift anger and brief hope at the rumors of her being with the Boltons, but the rumor was proved false.

Other than that, they did not know.

But Daenyers did wonder.

 **X-X**

Jon could feel things changing, he could feel that something was out there waiting, calling to his soul.

It had started to tug at him since he was in the fire, a voice calling his name, calling him back. He had died he was sure, the blackening abyss and then the silence before a blurred memory that evaporated into the flames.

He did not remember much before his death of his life, but he remembered that voice. Sweet and soft, lilting it called to his soul, spanned across nothing and reached into the flames for him.

He had brief memories now with the return of his foster siblings, Sansa and Bran and Rickon. Some memories were sweet, and some were not, some were tinged with pain and hurt and he steeled himself against it.

The Mother of Dragons, he had no previous memories of her.

His half brother was wary, but curious, he would often find him staring at him, the day to his night, light to his dark. The differences as striking as the similarities

He stared off into the night, Ghost at his side and waited.

"She is close."

He looked around to see Bran. His sled chair left tracks in the snow, his legs covered by furs and his face serene in the moonlight with the scattered camp fires at his back.

His sentinel of Meera was close by. Her sharp eyes focused on the two f them, especially Bran. Her devotion to him made Jon's heart clench for some reason. The way she watched him was careful and fierce.

He turned to his brother again as Ghost left his side, stalking into the night to hunt he supposed.

"You dream with him," Bran continued. "He hunts for her."

Jon stayed silent and statrng, he knew the dreams Bran spoke of, he had them often. Of brisk wind and snow and blood on his mouth, of the smell of warm flesh as teeth tore through. He dreamt of sniffing and hunting, searching for something beyond his reach and a howl that called to him. It leeched into his bones and shook in his skull, it made his body ache for something unknown and called to the wild beast within him, woken by the fire.

Many were wary of him, of the way he moved and spoke. The beast beneath his skin was dark and powerful and made many a man shy in fear, his family were wary, but they did not shy from him.

The blonde haired Targaryens treated him well, but with hesitation as if unsure of his character.

Aegon and he had talked, the man was thoughtful but hot headed. He lived for strategies and battle but thought of people and peace. Of uniting the seven, even if they had to give the Northern kingdom to Bran. But he shimmered with a leashed temper, and it raged beneath his skin.

Daenerys watched him with thought. Her violet eyes often looked to him as her mouth pulled in a frown. He had seen in her eyes for a moment, lust, but that was quenched beneath his impassive stare, not right, something whispered. Beautiful but not his.

She was a woman who used her sensuality, unafraid of the stares, she used them to her advantage, she had no skill with a weapon, but her skills of capturing men and womens eyes were numerous. But she was not his, not right.

"I feel..." Jon spoke softly, unsure of what it was, "as if there is something coming."

Bran was silent for a moment, "she is coming." His voice was patient. "She is close."

Meera, as if by unspoken sign, approached and they left, leaving Jon to his watch beneath the watching eyes of the gods.

For the next few days news travelled to their ears, the fall of the Frey's brutal and efficient. The body of Ser Illan Payne found in a tavern, those saying he had gone in his sleep.

On the third day as the camp set itself awake, there was a shout, a call to arms, to the dragon riders.

Jon's blood sang with the heralding of the change. He had not seen Ghost in two days, and he had only dreamed of lithe some bodies and snow, of great hunts and joy. Elation that sung so song he could feel the remnants lingering in daylight, so much so, people began to stare.

As he reached the edge of the camp, attention was called.

"There, in the woods! Shadows, hauntings!" a man in one of Brans banner men's colors spoke.

Casting their gaze to the trees, Jon waited, still and ready. Daenerys and Aegon beside him, the Stark siblings too. Nervous anticipation building as more and more gather and waited.

At first it was nothing, and then Ghost appeared, prowling forward. The company sighed, steel was resheathed.

"Nervy lad? The woods are old true tell, play tricks on a man with the snow and such." A wizened soldier said, exasperated but soothing to the young guard.

Ghost paused and looked over his shoulder, the eyes that were focused on him, looked to the trees.

Grey and black and white shadows, tan and silvers, brown and charcoal, smaller wolves emerged as another, larger, came forward.

As large as Ghost, if only a little smaller. The grey and white coat was contrasting to the feral golden eyes. It was larger than its breatheren but smaller than Ghost. Only slightly.

But that did not hold attention for long. Instead, the hooded cloaked figure upon it did. The midnight blue cloak was trimmed with fur and heavy, the hood drawn up and hiding features and body from view.

"Come no closer," Daeneyrs ordered, the Mother of Dragons was unsure of this entity, who had gotten so close to camp without anyone noticing. "Show yourself to us," she demanded.

The giant wolf took one more step to stand beside Ghost and paused, for a moment as the hooded figure sat there, head cocked. Jon had the distinct feeling they were amused.

And then the wind blew and the hood lowered.

Jon's heart clenched.

A narrow chin and a heart shaped long and narrow face of clear and lightly sunned pale skin. Small pouted lips soft pink and smirking and cheekbones and a small nose, long lashes and pretty eyes. Chestnut coloured hair, loose and in braids swayed with cold breeze. She was stunning in her darkness, lovely in the snow, a contrast to the pale beauty of the queen, to Sansa, light, bright and dark.

"Greetings your Grace," her voice sultry and accented lightly, tinged with southern cultured tones, dancing of the free city lilt.

Jon was moving, stalking across the snow before she spoke, as Sansa's relieved voice called out. "Arya!"

Hecould feel it deep with him, he knew her, and it was like seeing the sun for the first time, the moon and the stars. He ached to see if she was real. To touch her hair, to hold her.

Those grey eyes, like but not like his own, stared into his and then she slid off the wolf and into his arms.

"Jon, Jon, Jon," his name was chanted in his ear, hands gripping his cloak as he held onto her waist and hair ather nape. Breathing her in, smelling snowand winter and the dust of travel. Her voice was his voice, calling to him at night, calling him back from darkness.

"Little wolf," he murmured back.

He could see her in his memories now, knotty hair and knobby knees, a smile like the sun, full of mischief, full of wildness. Her adoration of him, her love was unconditional, her first steps, her first words were his. Her tears when he left, holding a slim blade in her hands in the firelight of her room, smiling at him in wonder.

"Don't leave me," she whispered.

"Never again."

Watching the others saw how they clung to each other, so alike, so different.

Daenerys watched as they pulled apart and walked across the snow towards the group waiting, he was tall and broad whereas she was slender, petite and small, as small as Dany herself. They moved together, him a dark stalking shadow, her a lithe form of grace walking on the snow as if it weren't there.

There was slight surprise as uncharacteristically Sansa broke into a run, reaching for her. Hands touching, face and neck, cloak and hair, her lips moving but only heard by the two brunettes, reaching and small hands grasped slended white fingers.

"Hush, I am well Sansa," a soft smile tillted the edges of lips, uncaring of the auidiance. "We are together now."

Rickon, young when his sister left, looked unsure. Until she ran a hand over his head with soft words. He turned to her with wolfish eyes, a smile bright and untinged by his normal feral edge.

The last, Bran, held his arms up for an embrace and she knelt in the snow before him, taking his hands in her own. the two looked into one another's eyes in a way that was difficult to understand.

"You found her," his voice could be heard.

"You guided me," she smiled up at him. "And she was waiting."

"We have all been waiting."

She rose then, taking the dark watchers hand for a moment as he held it to her.

She bowed as she faced Dany and Aegon, "your grace," she acknowledged them both. "I know it has been some time, I was delayed in crossing."

And Dany could suddenly see her, the face of a young girl, who had saved her life with a tight lipped smile, "I have heard of you, Mother of Dragons, you free slaves, and take justice on their behalf." Her voice had been respectful but careful.

She looked to the body before her, before flipping a coin and holding it out to her, "if you have need. Show this in Braavos, and ask for a girl, a girl shall come."

But then she had been different, blonde and not brown haired, plain faced and skinny. Nothing like the young woman before them now.

But she had called for her her skills had been invaluable at the time, each assignment completed. She was necessary for what her men could not do.

Aegon could see a small girl calling him stupid, eyeing his then blue hair with amusement. She had been younger, still growing, and dirty, like a shadow she was there and then not.

She was beautiful.

"Welcome Lady Stark," Dany smiled, relieved she was not to unknown.

A soft smirk curled the edges of her mouth, "forgive me your grace but I am no Lady."

Her siblings laughed, Jon smiled and the wolves melted back into the nearby woods.

 **X-X**

Arya Stark knew men in a different way to Dany, the Queen of Dragons watched as she fought with them, with knives and sword and bow. Small and agile, lithe and quick, she tired them out and set them down.

She talked to them and spoke their language in a way Dany could not.

They praised her, Jon's wildling men and women accepted her in their ranks easily, trading jokes and smiling with her. the called her a wilding wolf Princess, ignoring her scoff of derision at it each time.

The crows were in awe of her, she walked with her head high. For all that she said she was not a lady, the crows treated her as Lady Stark, Dany knew the Starks had enforced the walls rules for hundreds of years and these men respected her. Just as much as they respected Lady Sansa.

The unsullied were fascinated, as she was with them. She had first asked for Dany's permission to speak with them on tactics and warfare, of their training. She had granted it and watched as the men answered her questions and spoke in their tongue with an ease that spoke of her travels.

The Dorthraki were amused by her, she compared blades and attempted to twist her tongue about the language, patiently they taught her. For an outsider she was seen as a friend, her hair braided and her space respected by the men.

The sand snakes respected her prowess as a fighter, Obara smiled upon her and spoke in tones to her that were serious and thoughtful, when they invited her to join their council she realised more about Arya.

It was hard not to be jealous of the ease she had with people, how she walked the line of being respected and respecting others was similar to Jon's. hard not to be jealous of his ever hovering and present shadow was of him or Ghost, walking with her within the camp.

But the way that Arya was, was wild and untamed. Respectful to a point, but unafraid to disagree or share an opinion that was to well reasoned to be ignored.

They developed a friendship, furthered on the relationship of employee and employer to ruling monarch and reluctant princess, to respected friends. This helped to lessen the jealousy, to allow her to see the value of such a friend.

Her family she listened to, sitting for long periods with Bran and discussing things in whispers, faces solemn and sad before softening in understanding, of shared pain and darkness.

To Sansa she was softer, thorns unknown until clipped back in her presence, both solemn, both shadowed. A smirk lit the redheads mouth one day and Arya answered with her own, a hand was squeezed and their heads bowed, red and black and then they pued back their air changed from solemn and serious to teasing and soft.

Rickon was loved and gentled, a soft and soothing hand, or a growled warning. He followed her with his eyes if not with his feet, a sentinel to those that approached her. She understod his wildness in a way others did not.

Jon and her spent the most time together and it was as if watching him change. Still dark and brooding, the beast inside him paced eagerly after the winter rose. It was as if watching something melded once but broken, bend and twine back together fitting in ways they didn't understand and Dany knew now why Jon was like he was. He was uncomplete without her, they were the balance of each other.

And he was defensive of her, to watch them together was like watching two halves one whole. They were not brother and sister.

Not in the way the others were.

And it took some time to put a finger on it, to understand.

It started with the Dayne company arriving but a few days after the apearance of the wolf princess. Led by a Dayne of fair hair and another of dark hair. The fair haired Dayne smiled at her, kissing her hand.

Jon straightened in response, dark eyes flashing, even more so as the dark haired Dayne bowed over her hand, smirking roguishly. His eyes flickered with interest and lust.

Violence rose in the air.

A small hand upon a strong forearm and there was peace.

The siblings smiled, but others were confused.

Then came the Brotherhood without Banners, led by the one they called the Bull. A massive man, with broad shoulders and strong arms and legs, his blue eyes glinting in a tan face that was handsome and strong.

He pledged his honor and hammer, and greeted the royal Targaryens in turn. His nodded to the Starks and Daynes, the Martells and Tyrells, and more and then his eyes fell upon Arya, they were measuring, flickering. His tanned face whitened.

"Arry?" his voice was disbelieving, affectionate.

Looking to Arya many saw her smirk at him, but her eyes were guarded, Jon stood behind her, glowering.

"You - you're- Mi'Lady," he bowed deeply, the others in the brotherhood were either suprised or wide eyed.

An unlady like scoff emerged, "stupid. I'm no lady."

There was a story there, but it seemed the she-wolf was not willing to share, "I hope you found what you wanted."

Jon leaned his head forward, saying something softly, for her ears only, the two exchanged a look and then Jon scowled, straightening and his eyes flashed death.

But it made even more sense to see them in moonlight, before the battle of the long night. Foreheads touching, him bent over her, her staring up at him, slim fingers touched cheekbone, thick fingers tugged at her hair. Noses touched.

"Come back to me."

"I always will."

" _You are mine, and I am yours_."


End file.
